


Bitter on your tongue

by KendraPendragon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, In a way, Role Playing, Rough Sex, Sex Fantasy, Sherlock in Love, Sherlock in pain, Smut, after season 4, love making, rough Molly, sherlock fighting for molly, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 12:15:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13717485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KendraPendragon/pseuds/KendraPendragon
Summary: He moved forward, forward, his eyes always on her, his, his pathologist. Suddenly he was in front of her; one of many. He had degraded himself, had lowered himself, was nothing more than a beggar like the others.But when she spun around, her hips rolling and her open hair flying, he didn't care.He just wanted her to look at him.





	Bitter on your tongue

Silver and blue lights danced over her skin and long, flying hair, yet he recognized her. He would recognize her anywhere. And yet, the longer he watched her from afar, he couldn't believe it really was her. The heavy bass of the music vibrated through his body as he circled her, trying to get a look at her face. It wasn't an easy task moving through the crowd. He had to push people out of his way, not hearing their complaints over the song. Not that he paid any attention. They were mere obstacles, blurry shapes and faces, in his way to her. She was the only thing he saw clearly. And how could he not. The silver dress she was wearing sparkled like a star, countless of sequins reflecting the light with every move she made; and hitting the faces surrounding her. Six men were crowding her, begging for her attention. And she...she gave it freely. So freely. When he could finally see her face and saw the smile she threw over her shoulder at the man who pulled her against him, the bass punched him the gut so hard he felt sick for a second.

As if on cue the crowd parted, letting him see how the big hand stroke up her thigh, pushing the short skirt even higher before it ran up to her hip. His chest tightened when she rolled it, pushing her ass against his front.

A bitter taste in his mouth. Tension spreading inside his body. Everything in him screamed.

Wrong.

He moved forward, forward, his eyes always on her, his, his pathologist. Suddenly he was in front of her; one of many. He had degraded himself, had lowered himself, was nothing more than a beggar like the others.

But when she spun around, her hips rolling and her open hair flying, he didn't care.

He just wanted her to look at him.

She did.

Her eyes were black in the blue-silver light.

His mind was blank.

Another song was bleeding into the current one, the beat slower.

A faint smile on her lips causing his heart to pound in his chest.

The hunter became the prey.  
  


She straightened and threw her hair over one shoulder, showing off that long, slender neck and the elegant collar bone.

His mouth watered.

The first song faded away. So did his last chance to escape.

A male voice rapping, introducing the song.

Her entire body was moving like a snake. The sequins on her dress sparkled, hypnotizing him.

So easily trapped.

She took a few steps back, away from the rest of her former dance partners.

She had made her choice.

He was thrilled. Proud.

...And frightened.

The huntress raised her hand and, in complete sync with the female voice, she moved her lips while she lured him with her finger:

"Come on, come on..."

He followed instantly.

Before he even had a chance to close the gap between them her hand curled into his tight purple shirt, popping the top bottom open, and pulled him against her.

Her soft front rolled along his firm, lean body.

One arm snaked around her hips. He needed her closer. So much closer...

She just smiled. She knew his thoughts, his heart, his soul.

His hips and shoulders mimicked her fluid movements. She rewarded him with another smile; she was pleased with her choice. His heart skipped a beat and joy filled his chest.

The following five minutes were the most erotic thing Sherlock had ever experienced.

He had danced countless of times with women in clubs, especially during his drug phase. Well, at least one of them.

Never had it felt like this. The way she moved with him, guided him...it was all one, big seduction. Every roll of her hip, every move of her legs, every stroke of her hand, placed so precisely; it all served one purpose: Making him want her.

And fuck, he did.

He wanted her bad. He craved her like he had never craved anything else. He was all over her, some primal instinct ordering him to shield her from the hungry eyes of his competitors. To mark her as his own.

Her arse pressing against his half-erect cock made him grab her hips and push her closer. One hand ran up the scratchy sequins over her right breast. Small. Firm. Hot. Perfect.

His mouth watered. He pressed it against her neck, felt her blood rushing beneath her soft, sweaty skin.

He inhaled deeply. Her scent was intoxicating; he inhaled again, filled himself with her.

And yet he wanted more.

He didn't need to tell her. His body screamed, begged her. One more look and his fate for the night was sealed.

Another song broke into the beat of their song. That's when she escaped his posessive arms and walked away without looking back.

He followed her. Willingly. Obediently.  
  


She continued to ignore him as she picked up her coat and handbag - as sparkly as her dress - and left the club.

His ears were ringing from the music, the cool air of the night hit his sweaty head like thousand icy needles, yet his insides were still aflame, the arousal pulsating through his veins.

For once he didn't pay attention to where he was going. All his focus was on her.

How he wanted her to look at him. How afraid he was that she would send him away any second.

In the end, they entered a hotel. Her heels were clicking over the black and white granite flooring as she walked past the reception desk. A key card was tossed her way; she caught it effortlessly and smiled.

She continued her way to the elevator, where she stopped and waited, him standing beside her, staring at her through the reflection of the elevator doors; and she staring right back, that unnerving smile on her thin lips.

A ding and she moved into the cabin, him following without hesitation. Her scent flooded the limited space and he inhaled it deeply. Honey. A hint of apple. And her. So much her.

Another ding and she left, him on her heels like a puppy.

They were on the top floor. She walked through the corridor, her hazelnut hair shining in the warm yellow light. His fingers were itching to run through it.

Not long now.

A few more steps and they reached their destination. Her little hand with the short, red painted nails put the key card in the reader and unlocked the door.

In the furthest corners of his mind he noticed that this was in fact a suite, with a full-length window front.

He remained near the door while she stepped into the room, shedding her coat and throwing it onto the couch together with her purse. Running her fingers through her long hair she walked across the room, opening the dresser near the luxurious bed. Then she came back to him and finally her eyes met his. His heartbeat tumbled and a jolt rushed through his body. The erotic glint in those big brown eyes caused him to miss the object in her hand. Before he knew it a bright flash blinded him and he squinted his eyes together. When he could see again she stood in front of him, her long legs slightly apart, hips tilted left, shaking a polaroid with one hand while holding the camera with the other. She smiled, but didn't explain.

The explanation came a minute later, when she pinned his photo to a bulletin board hanging above an antique desk.

Male faces stared back at him. Some female. All wearing the same expression; him no exception.

So many faces.

Jealousy exploded in him and for a second he wanted nothing more than to shred every single picture to a million pieces. Before he could get too obsorbed into this irrational feeling, she came back to him, only to grab his coat and pull him through the room.

Oh, how eager he was to follow her.

When she leaned against the window and pulled him close, he automatically placed his hands against the cool glas.

Her hot breath hit his lips and they parted, ready to receive her kiss. Excitement and arousal were rushing through him and his eyelids fluttered close, only to snap open when he caught the look in her eyes. With a naughty smirk she slowly sank to her knees, her hands leaving hot trails on his body.

Sherlock gulped.

His gaze followed her down, her eyes forcing it to.

The sound of the zipper was obnoxiously loud.

She bit her lip.

His heart stopped beating.

The second she closed her soft fingers around his shaft he fully realized that he was doomed. He was lost, completely out of control. He would do anything for her, as long as she-

A groan exploded from his lips when she swallowed him whole. No teasing, no tender kiss, no hesitant exploration. He was hers and she wanted him to know.

Oh, he knew.

With every stroke of her tongue, every slide of her hot mouth up and down his shaft and every teasing scratch of her teeth he understood that, although her position was considered submissive, he was totally at her mercy.

Another moan left his throat when she closed her lips around his head and sucked so hard her cheeks became hollow, her tongue all the while dancing over the sensitive skin. His heart was thundering in his chest and he pressed his hands so hard against the glass he feard that he would push it out of its frame. With his cock being blown like this he didn't even realize how stupid that was. Thinking was barely possible at the moment. Logic, reason, analysis - impossible.

Right now he was no more than an instinct driven animal, a slave to his body...and her.

She captured his eyes as she pushed her lips down his shaft again. A shiver ran down his spine. Her teeth scratched his skin again and when she had reached his root he felt her sink her teeth into him.

This feeling, goddamnit. It was as much pleasure as it was pain and he was driven to the edge rapidly. Too fast, too soon. He didn't want to come yet. Not when her throat was tightening around him like that, not with her tongue massaging his shaft so fucking perfectly, not when she was looking up at him like that, that knowing, almost mocking fire in her eyes reminding him that he had lost control and wouldn't get it back anytime soon.

Sherlock panted heavily and he let out a grunt, the only notification of his imminent orgasm he could give, waiting for her to release him from the wonderful prison that was her mouth so he could turn away and...

A smirk.

That glint in her eyes.

Her mouth sucking him hard. Demanding.

He pressed a curse through his lips, the sensation overwhelming him. And then he fell into the black abyss, he became one with his body, feeling, feeling, falling. That hot mouth demanding every drop. Swallowing it all while her eyes constantly observed him, watching him die the little death.

 

When it was over, he felt weak. His knees were wobbly, he was sweating, still fully clothed including his long coat, and he was dizzy. So he tilted forward until his forehead touched the cool glass, trying to catch his breath and calm down; which she didn't make easy for him. She was still stroking him with her mouth and tongue, causing him to flinch several times, the sensations too much.

A part of him hated himself for this, but when he couldn't take any more, he let one hand wander into her hair and gently pulled her away, more a plead than anything else.

One more stroke from his root to his tip, then she showed mercy.

He was as grateful as he was sad.

While he was fighting to regain control of his body, the huntress began undressing him. Taking her time she untied his shoes before she unbuttoned his trousers and carefully pulled it down, taking his briefs with her. His bare arse rubbed against his coat as she made him step out of everything, including his socks. He couldn't help but feel like an idiot standing in front of her like this, only dressed in this and his shirt. That, however, was forgotten when her small hands began roaming over his legs. Using a strength which surprised him, she massaged his calves and thighs, a soft, merciful smile on her face.

He liked that. More than he wanted to admit.

When her hands wandered to the insides of his thighs only the tips of her fingers stroke up and down. His legs twitched and goosebumps spread on his lower back. She gave him a cheeky smile at that and held eye contact when she moved upwards, around the base of his cock to his backside. The bite down her lip should have warned him, yet he flinched in surprise when she dug her short nails into his flesh.

While she shamelessly explored his arse with her hands and scratched his skin with her nails, her cheek gently rubbed his soft cock. The contrast of both sensations was confusing, but also thrilling.

After another mintue, she ran her lips along his shaft - those wonderful, soft lips -, then she pushed him away. It needed a displeased look to make him understand what she was waiting for. A blush filled his cheeks as he quickly stretched out his hand and helped her up. He was an idiot.

Desperate to make it up to her he tried to kiss her; and got pushed away. It almost broke his heart.

She walked away from him. It was crazy, but everytime she showed him her back and ignored him he felt like he was losing her. Those seconds were driving him further to insanity.

His salvation came when she turned around and met his eyes, the hunger sparkling from her brown pools. Holding his gaze she sat down on the bed and lifted up her legs.

Sherlock swallowed hard.

She hadn't been wearing underwear this entire time. Thank God he hadn't known in the club. He didn't want to know what he would had done if he had.

There she said, his huntress, her back arched, hands, arse and heels on the mattress, waiting, her long hair falling down her shoulders.

So beautiful. So sensual. So fucking sexy.

The slim, rising eyebrow shook him out of his frozen state and he hurried over to her. His eyes were glued to that lovely fanny, his mind filled with only one thought. He was about to climb onto her like a hormone driven animal when she stopped him by poking her heel into his chest.

Confused, he looked up. Her eyes angry, scolding. Shame filled his chest and he instantly leaned back.

Another meaningful look made him understand. Quickly he pulled his coat down his shoulders and tossed it aside. Then he tried to unbutton his shirt, the skin underneath burning. Not fast enough. He wanted to tear it apart but when he met her eyes, he knew she didn't allow it.

So he continued, every disobedient button pure torture.

When he was finally, finally done he shrugged it off and threw the damned thing across the room, taking a deep breath.

He was completely naked now. It felt right. Especially since her eyes were gliding over his body, appraising, enjoying, scorching his skin.

Her inspection resulted in a smile. Never in his life had he been so happy. He wanted her to like the way he looked so bad, he realized.

He was not himself tonight.

Tonight, he was nothing more than a man. No, not even that. He was prey. Her prey. And she would use him however she liked.

A shiver ran down his spine. So much pleasure from one thought...

He wanted more.

Once again he made an attempt to climb on top of her. This time he had his hands on the bed before the heel poke into his chest. His eyes searched hers, once again confused.

A slight shake of her head; so humiliating. He felt stupid, small, and clumsy.

She pulled her leg out under his body and put her calf on top of his shoulder in one, elegant movement.

A flash of arousal bolted through his body.

She was so bendy. Lord help him.

When the pressure increased on his shoulder, he finally understood what she wanted, no, demanded.

He fell to his knees instantly. His fingers were shaking as they clawed into her hips and pulled her arse to the edge of the bed. One more second waisted to hike up her short skirt, then he was finally able to bury his head between her legs.

His mouth had filled with saliva so his tongue was wet and slippery as it plowed through her -completely bald, as he now realized - slit; from bottom to top, scooping up her juices.

So wet.

Her taste made him groan against her flesh and he drank her hungrily. Licking, sucking, biting - he did it all.

Her gasps and moans guided him. Every sound from her heavenly lips filled his chest with a pride that was ridiculous. It spurred him on to do more; he wanted nothing more than to please her.

When he pushed his tongue into her, she puffed out a curse and closed her legs. It was the last thing he heard. His head was trapped between her creamy thighs. All senses were now completely focused on her. She was everything. Her scent was heaven. Her taste made his cock swell. It was fully hard while he ate her out like there was no tomorrow.

His tongue was flicking over her swollen clit when her hands slided into his hair. Her fingers grabbed his curls and her hips started rolling. He stopped his movements and held his tongue still. A moan vibrated through her body when she realized. Taking control once again she began rubbing her pussy on his tongue, mouth and nose. Shamelessly did she use his face to pleasure herself - and he fucking loved it. He watched her body writhe and her head turn from side to side, her lovely lips parted, panting, moaning.

For a long while she teased herself with his mouth and Sherlock could observe her tension grow, could feel it in the pressure of her thighs as well as on the hot, wet flesh on his tongue.

Oh, so fascinating.

So fucking beautiful.

All of a sudden her thighs spread open again. Her heels stemmed into the duvet she lifted her arse of the mattress and closed her hands around the back of his head. She pushed and his tongue slipped inside of her again.

Sherlock groaned and clasped his hands around her hips.

His huntress needed him.

Pushing his face even further against her flesh he pushed as much tongue into her as he could. She rewarded him with quivering hips and a groan which made his ears ring.

With his nose pressed against her clit he fucked her with his tongue as deep and fast as he could, panting against her flesh, light-headed from her scent and taste.

It didn't take long and she came screaming, and he pressed his face against her, her walls clenching hard around his tongue.

So fucking awesome.

 

Her pussy was still convulsing when she pulled him away from it by his hair. She was rough with him. Pain shot through his head.

Suddenly he was on his back and she climbed on top of him and before he knew it-

Fuck!

They moaned in unison as she impaled herself on him with one determined thrust. Her walls pulsated around him and he grabbed her thighs because he just had to cling to her or he'd go mad. She was tight and wet and hot and rode him hard and mercilessly.

Their eyes met the moment she pressed her hand against his throat. He gasped for air. She rolled her hips. His eyes rolled in the back of his head.

No control.

Completely at her mercy.

Getting fucked by this gorgeous creature.

An outcry and she came.

Feeling the full force of her orgasm, Sherlock didn't stand a chance. He followed her suit, grabbing her arse to still her moving hips so he could push in deep and ejaculate into her. The greatest feeling in the world.  
  


When the world came into focus again and he opened his eyes, she was looking down at him, wearing that knowing smile he loved and feared. Holding his gaze she reached behind her back and unzipped her dress.

Finally, he thought, and the moment her dress was gone he lifted himself up to wrap his arms around her slender figure. With a helpless groan he pressed his face between her small breasts.

He felt like crying.

He needed her. Her strength. Her comfort.

Her love.

A moment of peace where she let him hold her. Tenderly did her fingers run through his hair and he felt safe. Home.

For a minute.

Then she took it all away.

Her fingers grasped his curls and pulled him back. He panted as the pain shot through him and again when she lifted herself off of him.

The moment he slipped out of her was so fucking painful.

He felt cold and left alone when she walked over to the window, once again her back to him.

She ran her fingers through her hair and arched her back, pushing out her lovely arse.

She was more beautiful than the London skyline she was facing. She was more beautiful than anything he had ever seen.

And so strong. Confident. Sexy.

He wanted her so bad. Even more now that he knew what she could make him feel.

He felt alive. Life was pulsating through his body. His senses were hightened. And they were all focused on his huntress.

It took several minutes before he dared to stand up. He waited for a sign, a look, a gesture, but it didn't come. When he couldn't stand the distance anymore, he came to her. Just when he reached her, her head snapped to the side. She didn't look at him, but her dark eyes were strict.

It hurt so bad to be denied.

He fell to his knees and wound his arms around her waist, pressing his face into her left butt cheek. Her skin was so incredibly soft, he couldn't help but press a kiss of admiration onto that gorgeous arse. Another. And another. His lips parted for the next kiss. His tongue tasted her skin this time.

Tender and careful he was as he placed kiss after kiss on her backside, each time afraid that it would be the last. Each of them was a plead he felt deep within his heart.

When she finally widened her stance it was like she had answered his prayer.

With a stifled groan he snaked his tongue between her cheeks. Their mixed tastes gave him hope.

It surprised him how much it aroused him to lick his seed off her wet labia. His hunger increased and he dared to move his hands, hesitantly explored her flat belly until his finger tips nudged against the undersides of her breasts. Slowly plowing through her slit, he dared to cup them.

His heart jubilated when she didn't protest.

He loved her breasts so much. It was as simple as that. Holding them, squeezing them, teasing the small brown nipples, he could do it all for hours. If only she would let him. If only he dared to ask. There were so many things he was afraid to ask, do and say. It's been so many years since he had felt this way: Insecure, weak, scared.  
He let his tongue slide through the wet little fanny and drank its juice hungrily, squeezed the small breasts in his hands. Breasts he had insulted, breasts he was not worthy to touch.  
As if she had heard his thought she suddenly grabbed his wrists and pulled his hands off of her. Next she grabbed his hair and Sherlock groaned in pain as she roughly pulled him away from her. He fell back on his bare arse, his heart aching as much as his scalp. It started bleeding when she walked away again, to the other side of the room.

Helplessly he looked after her, his heart drumming in his chest, screaming her name with every beat. The huntress crossed the room to the pinboard, taking a picture, looking at it.  
It hurt. God, it hurt so bad he gasped.  
Her fingertip sliding over the surface so tenderly. A giggle. She brushed the polaroid over her pixie nose, then she made him watch as she kissed it.  
A knot in his throat made it difficult to breathe.  
Then she tore it, the sound droning in his ears, and let it drop to the floor carelessly, forgetting it. She reached for another and repeated the procedure, that soft little giggle he knew and loved so much echoing within him. It was his sound. That giggle. He owned it. It was his, only his, only him making her do it. And now she gave it away, to each of these faces, before she tore them apart to simply go to the next.  
Sherlock's head was spinning, his chest burning. He scrambled to his feet and hurried across the room, panting. When he reached her he yanked the next picture out of her hand and angrily crumbled it before he tossed it away. Desperately he wrapped his arms around her, cupped her breast with his large hand, pressed his naked body against hers and her thighs against the desk. He buried his face in her hair, tried to kiss her neck, but she pushed him away again. With a desperate whimper he tried to hang on to her. The huntress scratched his arms and pushed hard. Sherlock let go, his arms burning like fire, his head spinning.  
He attempted to put his arms around her once more, but she slapped his hands away.  
He wanted to scream, to cry, to beg, to throw her down and make her love him, only him.  
But she kept her back to him and took yet another picture off the bulletin board.

His heart stopped beating.

Woman.

Time froze as he stood there, feeling more naked than ever as he gazed over the huntress's shoulder into those bright blue eyes.

Then those big brown eyes were in front of him, angry, accusing. He pleaded her with his eyes. It wasn't what she thought.

Her hand pressed against his chest and pushed him back, bringing some distance between them. Sherlock felt so god damn helpless. He couldn't bear it anymore.

This had to stop.

This wasn't a game anymore.

Now this was real and he couldn't handle it this way, not in this situation, the shift too sudden, too overwhelming. He would cock this up and she would leave and just the thought stung so bad it felt like he was falling into a black, cold abyss.

The sound of a lighter made him blink. Warm yellow light dancing in those angry brown eyes.

She set the polaroid on fire without even looking at the damned thing. Her eyes were fixed on him - and he looked straight back, only seeing The Woman's picture burn away out of the corners of his eyes.

There is nothing there. I want to be yours. All of me is yours.

Just when the flame was about to burn her fingers did the huntress drop the polaroid into the metal bin next to the desk, turning her back to him again.

Sherlock didn't know what to do, too afraid to reach out for her, even though that's all he wanted.

It was Sherringford all over again. The timer was counting down.

He was losing.

  
As if she wanted to hurt him even more her arm raised again and her fingers began sliding over these countless faces staring back at them, Sherlock's eyes following their path until they came to rest on another polaroid.

It was Tom. Meat Dagger Tom. Fiancé Tom.

First there was pain, so much pain.

Then her finger caressed the outlines of his face and anger flared up in him.

No.

Fuck no.

He rushed forward, slinging one arm around her front, the hand grabbing her breast, the other grabbing hers. He almost broke her finger when he tore the picture out of her grasp and threw it into the bin where it belonged.  
She was his.  
His.  
His.  
He only pulled her closer when she tried to push him away, ignored her scratching fingers and pushed her against the desk, bending her over it.  
His. Only his.  
Sherlock pressed his face against her neck, smelled her, nipped at her skin while he used his strength to keep her in his arms. His mind and body were on fire, he saw those white numbers behind his eyes, felt that breathtaking fear to lose her again and it drove him to the edge. With his free hand he hastily reached down while he tried to kiss her neck, grabbed his raging hard-on and fumbled, tried to get it between her legs.  
His. Always. Forever. Only his!  
The huntress cried out when he thrust into her way too roughly and he groaned as he felt her all around him, tight and hot and wet, squeezing him hard. She flinched in his arms. Her pain was like a cold shower and with horror did he realise what he'd done and he losened his grip.  
Too much. It was all too much. He couldn't do this anymore.  
A sob escaped his lips and he buried his face in her hair, still inside her to the hilt, she bent over the desk and supporting herself on the wall with her small hands. He loved her hands. So much. So god damn much it scared him to death.  
With trembling hands did he cup her breasts, those lovely little breasts, and rained soothing kisses on her shoulder and neck. Jealousy and fear were still clouding up his brain and he kept pushing into her, tried to be gentle, yet the desk banged against the wall.  
"I'm sorry...I love you...I love you..."  
The sob that erupted from her throat broke his heart. Reaching under her he pulled her up and against his chest, holding her tight, feeling her hot, soft skin. Panting hard, he pressed his open mouth against her neck, her pulse point, pushing into her, deeper, deeper, all the way. His hand reached down, pressed against her abdominal wall, tried to feel himself deep inside her. Inside her wet, tight, hot fanny. Where he belonged. Only he. Always. Forever.  
That's when she fell apart, gasping loudly, her body twitching in his arms, her channel clenching, milking, demanding his seed. But he held back, squeezing his eyes shut.  
He knew he hadn't earned it, causing her pain, making her cry...the Woman. He had to explain. To ensure her...  
"Enough," he croaked against her neck, "please. No more. No more...I beg you...Molly."  
By naming her, he broke the spell. The stage around them crumbled, their costumes ripped.  
The huntress disappeared, the woman in his arms shrinking, softening.  
Molly. Molly. His Molly.  
"Darling..."  
The doe-eyed pathologist stiffened in his arms. His heart clenched. He pressed his face against her shoulder. With his hand still lying on her belly, he carefully pulled out.  
Sherlock losened his grip but was too afraid to let her out of his arms entirely, too afraid she would leave. Needing her warmth, her love, he leaned in, his cheek against her forehead, his lips close to her ear.  
"It's just texting. I never text back."  
"But you read them. You save them."  
He didn't know what to reply. Truth was, he didn't know why he hadn't deleted the texts. Why he hadn't blocked the Woman's number. After everything that had happened, Sherlock finally knew where he belonged. Molly was his home, his saviour, his protector. She was his heart, and he only felt truly like himself when he was with her. He loved her beyond anything he had thought he could feel.  
"I called Tom. After I found the texts."  
His heart clenched so hard he squeezed his eyes shut.  
"We met up."  
Heat in his eyes. A tremble in his lower lip.  
"Did you sleep with him?"  
Cool numbness spreading in his chest. He didn't want to know. Not really. It wasn't important. He had messed up so many times, had hurt her so much. He would endure the pain. In a way he felt like she deserved revenge.  
"No."  
He let out a breath and pulled her against his naked front.  
"But I wanted to. I wanted to hurt you so bad."  
She started crying, hardly making a sound, only an occiasional gasp for air. Sherlock cupped her face, wiped the tears away, licked them off his thumb before he kissed her temple.  
"I love you."  
It felt like the right thing to say, yet those three words seemed too small for what he felt for the petite woman in his arms. So much braver than him. So much stronger.  
He said it again. He didn't get a reply. He never did. She hadn't said it since the phone call. A part of him feared she would never say it, that she would never be his, that she would never trust him enough to give him her heart, too afraid he might break it for good. He surely had been too close too many times. But that was before Sherringford, before he had understood his own heart. Things had changed. He had changed. He loved her and he knew it. Most importantly, he wanted to love her. With every breath, with every beat of his aching heart he wanted to shower her in that love and make her forget every stupid thing he had ever said and done.

After her tears had dried, she remained in his arms, allowed him to hold her body. Her mind though seemed to be far away, as it often did after they had played. She built up the shield again, and that always hurt the most.  
"I want to stop playing, Molly. I can't do this anymore."  
"I know."  
Tenderly, he kissed her shoulder. Of course she knew. She knew him better than he knew himself.  
It had started six months ago, three weeks after the events at Sherringford. He had knocked on her door and apologized for not coming sooner, for not explaining himself. John had done it for him. He had called her and had explained the phone call and the circumstances. At the time Sherlock hadn't been able to do it, his head still spinning with resurfacing memories, his heart full of feelings he had suppressed for years. It had been a mistake. He had realized when he finally had stood in front of her. Her eyes. They had been different. Even after he had told her he loved her. She had smiled, they had kissed and they had had sex in her bed. It hadn't been their first time, that's how Sherlock had known that things had been off. Molly hadn't looked at him, had avoided any kind of true intimacy. Sherlock had thought she just needed some time, that telling her he loved her had been enough. Now he knew it wasn't. They had entered into a relationship...in a way. They spent time together, but never alone. John and Rosie or someone else was always there, too. They had sex, but never as themselves. Molly had started this...game. At first, Sherlock had been thrilled. Molly had been so inventive, had put so much work into each of their role plays, like tonight. She made it feel real. And even though that's what made it so erotic, it also made sure that Molly could always keep her distance. It hadn't taken long until Sherlock had understood. Yet, he hadn't been able to say no. He craved her so much, every second with her had been precious. But he hadn't been with her. Not really. He knew what sex with Molly could be. It was warm, intimate, tender and full of love. Now they were only fucking and it just wasn't enough.  
"I want you, Molly. Please. I want to make love to you. I want to hold you in my arms. I want you to look at me...I want you to love me again."  
Again, no reply. He couldn't breathe. It took a few aching heartbeats to gather his strength, or at least some of it, to ask the question that had been going round and round in his head for weeks. His nose brushed along her temple, his lips kissed her cheekbone tenderly. God, he loved her so much. He would do anything for her. He would even let her break his heart.  
"Do you want me to leave you alone? I will if you tell me to. Even if it kills me. I want you to be happy. You deserve it. You deserve to have whatever you want. You are so strong and brave, so patient and kind. You've been so good to me, gave me so much without asking anything in return. And I took it all. I'm a greedy bastard. I took your love when I didn't understand how precious it is and wasted it all. And now that I finally understand, it's gone and I-"  
The pain inside his chest tore him apart and he pressed her against him, his beautiful Molly, his queen, his heart, sobbing against her bare skin. One last time, he swore himself, one last time he would steal her warmth and tried to absorb it with his body, fill himself with it. Then he let her go and turned around, bringing some distance between them. His hands were trembling, everything inside him screamed to hold on to her, to not let her go, but he did. For once in his messed up life he would do the right thing. Sherlock panted and pressed his fingers against his eyelids, tried to make the tears stop falling, to replace the ache in his heart with physical pain. His body felt so wrong. There was a weight on his chest that suffocated him. He wanted nothing more than to tear open his chest to relieve some of the pressure. He wanted to run away from her as far as he could.  
"Sherlock."  
The sound of her voice was like a dagger to his bleeding heart.  
"Yes?" he croaked and half turned to her, mere glancing at her, being embarrassed by his tears.  
"I love you."  
"Wha-?"  
A jolt rushed through him, knocking the wind out of him. White numbers. Her on the monitor. The coffin.  
His knees gave in and he fell to the floor, his head spinning.  
"Molly", he croaked helplessly, choking on his tears.  
She was there, his saviour, his protector, and wrapped her arms around him. He buried his face in her belly and slung his arms around her. He needed to feel her, breathe her, feel her pulse beneath his trembling lips.  
She was alive. And she loved him. Thank God.  
A shiver ran down his spine when her fingers began weaving through his hair. It was heaven. Soothing. Familiar. Warm. With red rimmed eyes he looked up at her, her skin wet with his tears. His heart ached with love.  
Her eyes. They were alive again. Alive with her love. Hastily he stood up and wrapped her in his arms. She hugged him back and one last time they cried together, their feelings too much to be contained.  
With wet lips he searched her mouth and when she kissed him, his knees weakened again. This time he remained on his feet, however, and moved them to the bed.  
"I love you, Molly. I love you so much."  
"I love you, too, Sherlock. From the very first moment."  
Gently did he push her back onto the bed, rolling on top of her. She spread her legs and united them by guiding his cock to her entrance. They were burning with such need for the other that foreplay was impossible. Neither was it needed. There was nothing more important than to be as close as possible right now.  
As he slowly began to move, Sherlock cupped her face and wiped the last tear off her cheek. For the first time in over a year Molly looked at him, her eyes so full of love. This love filled his heart, his chest, his entire body and he felt so incredibly warm and loved he wanted to cry. But no more tears tonight. So instead he smiled, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. She smiled up at him, her hand curling around his wrist and pulling it towards her. Each finger did she kiss, her eyes closed. She showered him with the love she had tried to suppress for so long, and Sherlock was so incredibly grateful.  
He bent down to kiss her and he never stopped until she came, him following suit, Molly holding him in a loving embrace as he fell apart.

"I'm sorry, darling", Molly whispered after he had rolled off of her and pulled her into his arms. "About Tom. I was hurt and frightened-"  
"Shhh."  
Sherlock pulled her tight.  
"It's okay. I understand."  
Her little hand came to rest on his heart. He heard her take in a deep breath.  
"Sometimes it scares me how much I feel for you."  
His heart clenched and his fingers weaved through her beautiful long hair.  
"Me too. I've never been in love before. It's...intense."  
"Yes."  
He tilted her chin up with his finger. There was that insecurity again.  
"But I want this. I want you. More than anything. I'll block her number...and you block Tom's. Just us. Forever."  
"Forever?"  
Her eyes widened.  
"Well, not technically forever. We're going to die at one point. You should know that better than anybody."  
They shared a smile and she rolled her eyes. Sherlock pulled her flush against him and placed a little kiss on her pixie nose. He had wanted to do that for seven long years.  
"But until then..."  
Their eyes melted into each other. Finally, she was fully his. Sherlock was so happy, so incredibly happy. He felt warm and safe and so loved. He didn't deserve it, but he sure was grateful. So grateful. And he would never let her go.  
"Marry me, Molly."  
The look she gave him made his heart swell. With teary eyes she cupped his face, stroke his cheekbone with her thumb, then his lips. His eyes fluttered close when she shifted up to kiss him sweet and tenderly.  
"Ask me again tomorrow. When we're not naked...and not in a hotel suite where you fucked a stranger."  
Sherlock chuckled and kissed the top of her head.  
"Another masterpiece."  
"Thank you."  
They kissed and cuddled. Eventually, Sherlock's eyes drifted to the pin board.  
"Where did you get all these pictures?"  
"Paid most of them."  
"And...the Woman?"  
He figured that she got Tom's from when she met up with him. He didn't want to think about that.  
"I got it when I told her that you're mine and she better back off before I scratch her eyes out."  
"Fearless as always."  
Sherlock chuckled.  
"So you already talked to her...does that mean and I can go to Meat Dagger and punch him in the face?"  
Molly beamed up at him.  
"No."  
Once again, a kiss was shared. Molly wrapped her arm around his neck and deepened it. Sherlock let his hand slide down her back to squeeze her lovely bum.  
"It turns me on when you're jealous", Molly whispered against his lips.  
"Believe me, after the hell you put me through tonight, I'm aware."  
"Was it too much?"  
"It was torture. But it was worth it. Made me realize how much I want you."  
He rolled on top of her and kissed her, spreading her legs with his knees.  
"You're mine", Molly whispered against his lips and with surprising force switched them around. Biting her lip she straddled him, reaching underneath her. Sherlock groaned when she grabbed him and once again when she united them. When she didn't move he opened his eyes. Molly's hand stroke up his chest to his throat. Her hand wound around it. Their eyes melted together when she applied pressure, just enough to make him feel her strength. Her power over him.  
And Sherlock felt safe.  
"I'm yours. Always."  
The pressure around his throat seized and he used this opportunity to lift himself off the mattress and wrapped his arms around her. Closer. Always the need to be closer to her.  
"I love you", he whispered, looking into her soft brown eyes.  
"I love you, too."  
Their lips melted together. Molly wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her tongue stroking his inside his mouth tenderly. Sherlock pulled her flush against him, one hand in her neck. For minutes they only kissed, parting only when the need for air was imminent and melting back together again.  
The white numbers disappeared. The golden plaque on the simple coffing was blank and sunk into darkness, forgotten, deleted, taking the fear with it.  
She was his. Forever.  
Finally, he was back home.  
His home.  
His heart.  
His Molly.

 

 

 

 


End file.
